


your evolutionary, revolutionary heart

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As sixth year ends, Ron grows up. A moment on the train home as he dwells on his heart, and Hermione, and the ways the two coincide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your evolutionary, revolutionary heart

_my body is a cage that keeps me  
from dancing with the one i love  
but my mind holds the key_

\---

The turning point came years ago, if you care to think hard enough.

The Yule Ball in fourth year, you reckon. Acting like a fool in front of girls who were suddenly women, breath caught in your chest by the sight of your best friend walking down the stairs in something blue and otherworldly. It wasn't just the moment you saw the beauty creep out from under her skin, glowing in every smile and downcast look. It was also the moment you realized you didn't want anyone else having her, that she was _yours_ in some primal, possessive way that's sure to get you slapped should you ever tell her of it. 

It was the first time Hermione actually frightened you--made something inside you fall away leaving in its wake a mess of feeling both fragile and tenuous and most importantly, inches away from shattering.

Maybe frightened is the wrong word. Maybe you were unsettled, instead, pieces shifting in your heart to accommodate all that you were seeing, everything you were learning.

Hermione's pink blush and big eyes, her skirt swirling around ankles that looked strangely delicate, her soft hair and gleaming smile, it was like a dream, nothing so real as a best mate with big teeth and cat hair sticking to her jumper. You were unsettled by it, yeah.

Unsettled by the hope lighting her face like a bright candle. Unsettled by the anger that came out of nowhere and the way it did nothing to dim her luminosity. Unsettled by the tears that slipped down her red, red face as both of you were shouting, _screaming_ , her hair escaping that ridiculous twirly-thing atop her head, your fists clenched at your sides to keep from touching her. Rowing at the bottom of the stairs and it was the same as all your fights before but _different_ , so different, and you didn't know why. Not then.

You weren't quite ready for her. Didn't quite understand the way your body was rearranging, how your mind was doing it, too. All of fourteen and stubborn besides--there was no room to recognize the way your definition of truth had just shifted.

But now you're older, and a little wiser (thanks to a certain book Fred and George recently gifted to you), and you understand a little better that slow-burn desire, the bone-deep imperative to protect, every restless dream and awkward stumble. And looking at her, really looking at Hermione Granger for the first time since you were eleven and you wondered where the bloody hell this infuriatingly, maddeningly _brilliant_ girl came from, you're finally ready to admit that she's the most gorgeous person you've ever known.

The curve of her lips, the pale of her skin, even the frothy cloud of her curls tumbling every which way. You've watched her for so long without really seeing, watched her lips press into a thin line of deep thought, watched her expressive brows climb to her hairline in exasperation. Watched her cheeks crease as she beams in pride, watched her throat work over tears. And when she's angry--oh, you've watched her then, as well. The tilt of her chin, the frame of her shoulders. 

You've known how to read her forever. But you're only now understanding the words.

And that's what you're waiting for, isn't it? For the smartest witch of her age to look at you in the same way you're looking at her--in understanding. Her eyes burning into you, finding things she never even knew she was looking for. Wanting you. Needing you. It'd complete that puzzle inside, getting that look from her. It'd push some piece in and lock it in place with the others, make a picture that looks something like a future separate from Hogwarts and Horcruxes and, much as you love the bloke, Harry.

It's the last day of your sixth year. Dumbledore is dead, and there is adventure ahead. But the linchpin of it all is Hermione. Everything converges on her, because she is the only constant you know.

The train jerks you out of your reverie, makes you stumble and catch hold of her hand. Her skin is hot, dry, soft. Fingers like bird bones, delicate and tiny, tips stained with ink, decorated with paper cuts she always forgets to heal. You think they're her badge of honor, the only way to visibly prove that she's earned her place in battle as well as Harry has. Her brain's all locked up in her head, but her intelligence bleeds through her hands. You never make fun, because in some way, it's the same with the brute strength and determination proved by your Quidditch callouses, the ones she'll sometimes trace with that _Oh, honestly, Ronald_ look in her eyes. (You think there are probably more gratifying things in this world than that look, but bullocks to anyone who tries to prove it. )

"I think rounds are done, don't you?" she asks now, and her voice is absent. You can tell she is already making lists, noting supplies and books and spells and more books that you'll all need for your journey come July. It's a rare first--a day when Prefect duties come second to something. This something being life-or-death preparations, of course, so you take no glory or joy in it. If you could, you'd keep her home and safe for the rest of her life, even if it meant dying far away from her, even if it meant never seeing her again. You sort of understand now how Harry could have broken things off with Ginny.

But the selfish part of you, the part that feels like Harry is your right arm and Hermione is your left and that there's no way to function without either of them, is very, very glad that there will be three of you taking that uncertain road together.

"Yeah," you answer, "I think rounds are done." Of course rounds are done. Hogwarts may never reopen with its Headmaster murdered; checking the train for troublemakers is a bit like making the rounds at the gallows. Everyone is silent, scared, expressions black and voices quiet. But there is Hermione, impervious to the encroaching darkness, thinking only of hope and triumph and what needs to be done. Of what's to come, of what's ahead.

You notice she's not dropped her hand from yours, though. Whatever else she is, this brave girl, she knows she is not alone. Your heart stops, because this easy confidence of hers has always daunted you, always challenged the insecurities lying in your soul. _Are you smart enough? Strong enough? Good enough?_

By the way her hand fits into yours without thought or adjustment, Hermione thinks you are. And you want to rise to that challenge. Prove her right. That desire throws you off-balance, leaves you stupid and uncertain and tentative. But above all, ever-hopeful underneath.

Unsettled.

Her hand squeezes yours.

You squeeze back, and Hermione, unremarkable to most, in her Hogwarts robes and skirt and jumper, looks at you. The world sharpens, your skin heats, and you almost feel like throwing an arm over your eyes at the way her smile shines, lights the whole train around you.

The year ahead is bound to be fraught with danger, with daring, with death. But the single most important thing is getting a chance to tell Hermione the truth. That you think she's beautiful, and smart, and frustrating, and completely off her rocker. That you want to spend the rest of your life with her, even if-- _especially_ if--it happens to only be about as long as this mission to kill bits of You-Know-Who's soul.

You may have missed it when it happened all the way back in fourth year-- 

(and if you're honest with yourself, you'll see it happened long before that, when trolls invaded bathrooms and slugs came out of your mouth and _she slapped Draco Malfoy across his stupid face_ ) 

\--but you don't want to miss it when next comes. 

You sit next to her for the entire ride home, watching the Highlands disappear, and the sun sink below the hills. And when you arrive at King's Cross, as your hands disentangle, as her eyes catch yours with something foreign, a desperate fear, an unwillingness to let go, you give her the most reassuring smile you can. You say goodbye and you tell her, quietly, that you have faith in her. And she says, "I have faith in us," quietly, so quietly it gets swallowed up in the sound of families reuniting. The shape of her mouth and the embers in her eyes, though. You'll remember those.

You watch her go, her shoulders slightly less rigid than a second before, your skin still hot from touching hers. And it's a sort of triumph.

You think when your moment gets here, you'll finally be ready to take it.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from Livejournal.


End file.
